


Oh My Honey

by PookityPook



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I'm Sorry, I'm not gonna lie, Inspired by Music, Oh My Honey by Sara Jackson-Holman, it's pretty sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PookityPook/pseuds/PookityPook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never thought that he would have to wait to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh My Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Oh My Honey 
> 
> by Sara Jackson-Holman
> 
> Oh, my honey, weary and low,  
> You've had a lot on your mind,  
> And it’s time you let it go.
> 
> Oh, little darling, you've been so strong,  
> But even the mightiest heart needs a place  
> To come undone.

Dean never thought that he would have to wait to die.

He had always imagined his big exit as dramatic and quick. Being torn to pieces by a hellhound had certainly been dramatic. Getting shot and sent to heaven had been very quick. And going by what Sam had told him, his hundred plus deaths at the hands of the Trickster had been a varied combination of both.

Sam.

Dean made the effort to angle his head (basically the only part of him that still moved) to look at where his little brother lay, a few feet away.

Dean couldn’t delude himself into thinking Sam looked peaceful in death. Sure, his eyes were closed and the lines of his face were smoothed in a way they had never been in life, but his chin was streaked with blood (both his and not his) and his long (stupid, _girly_ ) hair lay across his eyes, obscuring most of his face.

Dean ached to reach out and tuck Sam’s hair (ridiculous, long, princess hair) behind his ears, or at least out of his face, but all he got for his efforts to drag his arm off the ground a few inches was a searing pain across his back and a full view of the mess that was the skin of his forearms.

He let his arm drop back down, and the action caused a small cloud of ash to fly up. Dean coughed ( _god_ , and that was a bad idea), scrunching his face up from the pain. The shock of the escaping air from his lungs disturbed the charred feathers that were scattered all around him. But Dean didn’t look at those, ignoring them as he examined instead the pattern left by the ones branded into his skin where his sleeves had mostly been torn away in the fight.

He couldn’t even really feel the burn anymore, indiscernible as it was from all his other injuries, and smeared with soot and blood.

He tightened the hold he had in his other hand on the bunched up material of tattered trench coat, but not looking, _not_ wanting to see what was left of his (brave, loyal, _idiotic_ ) angel.

And that was a lie. Dean took in everything: the torn (still backwards) blue tie, hanging looser than ever; limp fingers that had held the angel blade (lying useless off to the side); the no longer beige trench coat; dark hair spilling across the ground, matted (and darkened further) with blood…

Dean’s eyes finally came to rest on the clean (precise, deadly) wound in Cas’s chest. The one he wasn’t supposed to have gotten, because it was Dean’s job to protect Sam from everything, including psycho demons wielding angel swords. (Where and when they had acquired such a collection, he’ll never know.) But the stupid, noble angel had gotten to Sam first, and that was about all he had time to do before he was dying and Dean was screaming Cas’s name and Sam was screaming his and the angel’s grace was exploding as Dean caught his falling form, and not even the blinding, staggering shockwave could make him let go.

Not even the overwhelming pain of being branded by a thousand invisible feathers had made him let go.

And then Sam was trying to drag Dean away as Dean tried to do the same with Cas (when had he stopped thinking of him as an angel in a vessel, and just as Cas?), and they were both knocked flat on their backs and out of it by an _enormous_ angel on demon collision off to the side that made everything go white and loud and senseless for entire seconds before there was nothing but silence.

It had been in that silence that Dean had realised that this was the end and one look to his side at where Sam lay confirmed it.

He had been on his back, choking and coughing up blood and Dean was doing the same, torturously wiping at his mouth and pulling his hand away covered in red. Their ragged breathing had been the only sound in the eerie quiet and Dean couldn’t even lift his head up to see what had become of the other fighters, both angel and demon alike.

Giving up on that, he had then focussed on his surroundings. He was covered in red blood and grey ash and black streaks of sooty of feathers, the imprints of which stretched far beyond on either side of where he lay, still clutching tightly at Cas’s lifeless body.

Dean was struggling to think straight. He was dying and Sam was dying and Cas was already dead, so he forced himself to get (at least a bit of) a grip, and promised himself that he wouldn’t go until Sam did. He _refused_ to leave the kid alone to die; he just wouldn’t do it. He would look out for him until the very (very close) end, like he always had.

Dean had looked over at Sam and saw his little brother watching him, wide-eyed and messy haired and silent, still struggling to breathe, trying to hide his fear.

Dean knew they were both thinking it: this was the _last_ time. No more deals, no more cheating Death. God knew he’d had more than enough of that by now. This was a one way trip to the afterlife.

Sam had tried to speak, obviously making a huge effort to form the words carefully.

“See… see you… on the others side?” He blinked as he asked the question, and Dean had been able to recognise the familiar puppy-dog expression on his face even though most of his face was obscured by his hair, and _dammit_ , if Dean hadn’t felt like sobbing before, this would have broken him. But he firmly refused to break down in front of Sam when he was being so composed, considering everything.

So Dean had shoved back his emotions and carefully replied “Yeah, Sammy. Just… just make sure there are no dogs when I get there, yeah?”

Sam choked out a small laugh despite how much it clearly hurt. “Jerk,” he had then whispered, letting his eyes flutter closed, his face finally relaxed.

Dean paused, the finality of this exchange making his chest constrict tightly. “Bitch,” he had eventually said, quietly but just loud enough. But he knew Sam didn’t hear it.

He was alone now, and could let his tears flow freely, not surprised by how quickly they collected and spilled down his cheeks.

He futilely tried to move to brush Sam’s hair away, examined the marks left on his skin, squeezed Cas’s trench coat tighter, and waited to die.

“Oh, honey,” a voice broke the silence. Dean’s eyes shot open (he’d closed them? When?); he had been convinced that he was alone. But the voice was gentle and tender and so, _so_ familiar, and Dean suffered the agony of turning his head around to find the source.

When he saw her, he was left breathless. 

“Mom?” he knew his voice was filled with disbelief, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help thinking that his mind was just messing with him now, dishing out some last minute torture before he went.

Or maybe it was comfort, but for some reason he doubted it.

But it if it was his mind playing games, it wasn’t relenting because his mom was approaching, radiant and dressed in white, but thankfully not drenched in blood the way all their previous encounters had seen her. As she moved she didn’t even disturb the ash and dust at her feet, not even when she gently knelt by Dean’s side. Dean could only stare, speechless.

“You’re so weary, love,” his mom said sadly, and reached out a hand to touch his face. Dean almost leaned away, expecting it to hurt, but it didn’t. He realised he didn’t hurt at all anymore.

“Am I… did I die?” Dean winced at the rasp of his voice. His mom shook her head.

“I know you’ve had a lot on your mind for so long now, but it’s time to let it all go,” she told him, running her fingers through his hair. The touch felt so good, and Dean didn’t reply, just closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation. If this was a hallucination, it was a damn good one.

“Oh, little darling,” his mom continued, her voice sounding like a whispered song. “You’ve been so strong,” she told him. Dean opened his eyes to see that she was smiling brilliantly down at him. “But even the mightiest heart needs a place to come undone.”

She leaned down to place a lingering kiss on his forehead, her long hair falling in a golden curtain around him. And he couldn’t restrain his tears this time as more decided to escape. He swallowed the cry that threatened to make itself heard, choosing to (attempt to) speak instead.

“But… what if… I can’t, I don’t know if… Sam, and… and Cas…” Dean’s choked out words were just a jumble of thoughts that he couldn’t put into substance, because even now he couldn’t handle his emotions, had always shied away from talking about his feelings and uncertainties.

But his mom just took Dean’s face into her hands, wiping away his tears with soft fingers. She understood. 

“They’re waiting for you,” she told him, her voice low and earnest. “We’re _all_ waiting for you.”

That was enough, and Dean felt a flooding sense of peace, finally laying his head to rest on the ground, tears no longer falling.


End file.
